A/N: I tried to have a really busy fanfic-writing week, and this is an older drabble that jumped up when organizing my files, so why not post it. The second part should be up next week. :)

Source-destroyed-but-alive!Jacob, just to leave the backdoor open for him catching the flu from Lara.


There are soft, tentative steps from the hallway, and Jacob pauses his work on the manuscripts when his ears pick them.

A sigh leaves his lips.

And it doesn't take long – albeit, it does take a lot longer than normally – before the door opens ajar and Lara maneuvers her way into the room, huddled under the long-haired pelt.

Her eyes meet his, defiant like meeting with a Trinity leader despite being slightly bloodshot and tired. She grasps the door tightly in an effort to keep herself upright, but the cough betrays her, making her visibly irritated.

"Somehow I remember that you ought to stay resting," he offers casually, moving a paper out of the way.

"–'m fine enough to help."

"Not two hours ago, you were burning," he counters, oscillating between getting up to help her and staying back to watch the scene unfold. Lara can be unbelievably stubborn against help sometimes, and he knows that finding the right moment is the key. He had already thought that leaving her to sleep would be more beneficial in getting her some rest than rustling papers in bed, but Lara, it appears, has decided to make him re-think.

"Herbs help't. 'm better."

Despite being no stranger to traditional medicine, he wouldn't have vouched for the cocktail of herbs from a few different countries that she has mixed to win the disease. He had even boiled her a medicament traditional to the Valley, but no cure is magic and will still require time and the patience that Lara has always lacked with her shortfalls. The remaining pieces of the Divine Source have no power anymore, which has made him swallow the amusement at Lara's complaints of the badly timed destruction.

Slowly, Lara lets go of the door but has to search for the wall with her right hand.

He has enough at that, and despite the mumbled, muddled opposition on her lips, he hurries to support her.

She averts her gaze when he places his hand on her forehead.

"Your temperature is still above healthy, and your skin is clammy."

"Survived worse," she murmurs.

He eyes her soberly while trying to come up with a solution. Lara is unable to stay away in bed with their deadline approaching and him working on his own – no matter how she wouldn't even blink if the situation was reversed.

He takes her arm, and when she is about to protest and raises her hand dodderingly on his chest to stop him, he guides her gently, "To the armchair. I'll bring you a book there."

There is a moment of distrustful, very confused surprise when her brain catches up that she doesn't have to fight him, but her posture immediately relaxes against him, letting him walk her to the plushy chair near the desk.

She sinks into it like a stone into a pit.

He picks her a book from the pile – ancient Greek in a medium-sized leather bind – and places it into her hands before adjusting the pelt better on her.

It's a boring book, he knows that because he just subtly passed it downwards on the waiting pile – and – even if Lara is good with ancient languages, it will still require more focus. And the softened leather is just a chivalrous addition when the lines will become jumbled and she'll nod off with the book in her lap.

She looks at him, her eyes blinking heavily at trying to see his endgame in this. She is headstrong enough to know that he is guiding her, but feverish enough not to be able to pinpoint on where, exactly.

Making no note of her distrust as it would only make her more suspicious, he sets back to work and follows Lara's wandering attention from the corner of his eyes.

It takes fifteen minutes – ten more than he would have given to most people in her condition – before she discreetly pushes the book aside and begins to stare at the fire, fixated like a moth around a flame.

She gets up, and with shaky steps, shuffles in front of the fireplace to sit down on the rug, pulling the pelt more tightly around herself.

Lara sways softly by the fire when he walks to her.

"Cold?"

"A little," she mumbles with surprising honesty.

She follows his movements with febrile confusion when he moves to sit behind her, consequently making her sit between his legs.

"Work," she tries with her head drooping and making him hug her from behind and rub her arms gently.

He knows that she is exhausted from not having any rest for the past two days with her coughing and stuffy nose – and that's on top of pulling a few all-nighters with the research before it. "We'll figure it out," he leans to murmur against the back of her neck, moving the messy bun gently to the side with his fingers.

Her petite frame is still shivering slightly in his arms under the pelt, but he can feel how she is seeking comfort from him by leaning against his chest.

It's rare for Lara to show her fragility like that and it makes him want to protect her all the more.

The heat and the crackling from the fire, not to mention the fever on her, remind him of his time in exile, malnourished and ill, waiting alone for the death that he knew would never arrive. He had been so terribly lonely then. He hugs Lara a little more tightly and kisses her on the nape of her neck. He doesn't pull away when Lara breaks into one more coughing fit, and he lulls her to sleep with his head resting lightly against hers, quietly humming old hymns.